“Oh, then,” said his friend with an air of relief, “the treatise as you call it is not all pure science. I hope, old boy,” he added anxiously, “you have had the forethought to cast it into the form of a novel.” “Yes,” said the author, “you might almost say it is a kind of novel--and yet it is a kind of poem too.” “Ah,” said his friend hopefully, “that is better. A treatise in the form of a novel may be all right, although much depends upon the length. And a novel in the form of a prose poem; that may be all right too, that is if it is not lacking in dramatic interest. I have heard Octavius lay it down as a fixed rule that in a prose poem you must have dramatic interest.” “I think I may promise,” said the author, with a simplicity that passed beyond the understanding of his friend, “that it is not lacking in dramatic interest.” “Good!” said Jimmy Dodson. “Things are shaping better than could have been expected. Yet you know, old boy--if I must tell the truth--I never quite thought you had it about you to write a really good novel. But you never know, old boy, do you? Some of the smartest writing chaps of the day don’t at all look the part. Yet I don’t quite know, old boy--you won’t mind my saying it--whether you have had quite enough experience of life. I’ve heard Murtle say that a chap wants enormous experience of life to write a really good novel. I’ve heard him say to Octavius that he couldn’t possibly have done what he has unless he had dined out every night in good society for twenty years. But the novel may be a romance. Of course that would make a difference. A fellow doesn’t have to know so much, Octavius says, to write a romance. Yet don’t forget, old boy, that other things being all right, grammar, style, dramatic interest and so on, much will depend upon the length. Whatever else it may be I hope it will not be more than eighty thousand words.” “I am afraid,” said the author, “the question of ‘length’ has not occurred to me. But now you speak of it I should not say the length is great.” “Good,” said Jimmy Dodson. “Well, I must leave you now, old boy,” he added, “to catch my train to Peckham. I can’t tell you what a relief it has been to find you quite well again. But I will come back to-morrow evening, and I will look at this novel of yours, and we will talk over the question of offering it to the firm, although if you do that, old boy, you will be obliged, you know, to adopt what they call a pseudonym.” “I intend that the poem shall be published anonymously,” said the author. “Poem!” said Jimmy Dodson. “Why, I understood you to say just now that it was a kind of novel. A poem, you know, would make a difference.”